


Unwanted

by SunflowerSupreme



Series: Nerdanel [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Nerdanel's Home for Wayward Kinslayers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-10-05 06:13:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20484200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunflowerSupreme/pseuds/SunflowerSupreme
Summary: Reembodied in Valinor against his will, Maeglin seeks solstice with relatives he's never met.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I teased the idea for this fic when I was working on [Return](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273611/chapters/48057043%22) and people really seemed to be into it.

He didn’t know where to go when they pushed him out of the halls. All he could get from the Maia escorting him was that his mother hadn’t been reembodied yet. “Where am I supposed to go?” he demanded.

But the Maia hadn’t replied, disappearing back into nothingness.

Maeglin slumped to the ground, clutching the bag and map he’d been given, and cursed at them bitterly, hoping they might show back up to smite him. But they didn’t and he remained alone.

The elves of Valinor didn’t exactly have a concept of homelessness. There were plenty of elves who merely wished to wander, living by themselves, and it was just expected that strangers would offer them kindness. So Maeglin kept to himself, hiding in the woods, only emerging when he needed supplies.

Everything was given to him freely, and he was always invited to return home with them, but he would shake his head, speaking as little as possible to hide his strange accent, and slip back into the woods.

When winter came, he moved closer to the city, finding an old stone bridge to hide under, wrapping himself in blankets that had been given to him.

* * *

The voices woke him. “I want to see how it’s made,” someone said, and footsteps came closer to his hiding place.

“Your aunt doesn’t have room in her garden for a bridge, you know,” said a second, musical voice, seeming amused. There was something almost familiar about the voices, but all Maeglin could do was hold as still as possible and pray he wasn’t found out.

“I’ll only be a moment and I’ll catch up with you,” promised the first. Above them, Maeglin heard a horse trot off. He scowled and pushed himself further under the bridge. But unfortunately, the sound of footsteps came closer, following the path Maeglin had made down to the dry patch below the bridge.

Turgon.

Maeglin recognized him only a moment before Turgon saw his nephew, and for a very long time neither of them moved, staring in horror at one another.

There was only one easy way out from under the bridge and Turgon was blocking it. The other exit would require swimming, and it was cold enough that Maeglin didn’t relish the idea, but he had to get away from his uncle.

He made a desperate break for it, darting toward the river, but a strong hand wrapped around his arm, catching him. He went perfectly still and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for Turgon to do something. Strike him, throw him in the river, scream, anything.

But all his uncle asked was, “Where’s my sister?”

“The halls,” Maeglin whispered back.

Turgon let out a breath, then asked, “Why did they release you?”

“I suppose they hate me.”

“Namo isn’t cruel.”

Maeglin clenched his jaw, refusing to say anything more.

“That was Ecthelion, you know,” Turgon said after a moment. “He died in the Square of the King.”

“I know.” They’d made him watch all their deaths, over and over again until he’d wept for those he had betrayed.

“I died in my tower.” Turgon’s grip on him still didn’t loosen, and Maeglin resisted the urge to rub at it as his arm began to go numb from lack of circulation.

“And I died beside the bones of my father, whom you killed.”

“I won’t apologize for it.”

“And I won’t apologize for being born.”

They lapsed back into silence. Then, after a long time, Turgon asked, “Do you live here?”

“Not anymore.” Not if Turgon knew where he lived. He’d have to find somewhere else to hide.

“How long have you been out of the halls?”

“Since spring.”

Turgon’s grip loosened and Maeglin took his chance. Leaving behind the belongings he’d accumulated, he leaped into the water and swam away. Behind him, he heard Turgon shouting for him, but he didn’t stop running.

He didn’t go far, since he always stayed as close to the road as he could, and hid behind a rock, shivering in the cold.

But Turgon was back the next day, and he had a group with him. As soon as he heard them coming, Maeglin darted up a tree, nestling himself in the branches to watch as they rode up. He more of them than he wanted to admit.

On one side of Turgon was Fingon, and an elf who could only be their brother Argon was on his other side. Behind them, was Ecthelion and Glorfindel, as well as two strangers and one elf that looked vaguely familiar. 

“You’re certain of what you saw?” the woman behind Turgon asked. It wasn’t Idril, though, and she looked more Sinda than Noldo.

“I saw my nephew,” Turgon replied.

“If he jumped into the water, he may have returned to the bridge for more clothes.” There was a man beside the woman and his face was twisted slightly with concern. “Its cold, even for an elf wet clothes would be uncomfortable.”

“And are you going to do if we do find him, cousin?” asked the elf Maeglin vaguely recognized. If he was a cousin, that explained a bit of why Maeglin knew him.

“I haven’t decided,” Turgon replied, “although your mother’s idea was tempting.”

The unnamed cousin snorted. “He’s a full-grown elf and a powerful smith at that, I’d enjoy watching you try to turn him over your knee like a child.”

“He practically is a child,” Fingon interrupted. “Which is why we need to find him.”

They rode up and down the road, calling out for Maeglin as though thinking he was just going to come out to greet them.

He scowled. If Turgon thought he was going to crawl to him and let his uncle spank him he was a bigger fool than Maeglin remembered.

It was the unnamed cousin that spotted him. A branch had snapped under Maeglin’s weight and he had turned sharply, silver eyes darting up to him.

“Lomion?” he called, riding closer. “Why don’t you come down and talk.”

“No.”

“I’ve been homeless, you know,” he said, offering a soft smile. “I can promise you that a bed is much more comfortable than the ground.”

“You’ll have to drag me out.”

“I’d get Arakano, if that was my plan.” He slipped from his horse, walking closer to Maeglin’s tree. “Come and take my cloak, at least.”

“So you can grab me?”

“I don’t recall you being quite this paranoid at Nirnaeth Arnoediad.” He unclasped his cloak, tossing it into the woods. “But I suppose Angband does that to a person.” He stepped back, looking up at Maeglin. “My mother has a house in Tirion. I live there with her and you’re welcome to join us.”

“I don’t belong in Tirion.”

“Arguably neither do I and yet they tolerate me.” His cousin swung himself onto his horse. “Once you’re in the city, head toward the palace until you find a gate with a seven-pointed star. If there’s a long cobblestone path with six statues on the lawn, you’re in the right place.”

With that his cousin rode away, gathering up the other searchers and not saying a word about having seen Maeglin.

Once they were gone, Maeglin jumped from his tree, picking up the cloak. The cloak pin was made of metal and forged in the shape of a harp and it confirmed his suspicions.

Maglor Feanorian had returned to Valinor.


	2. Chapter 2

Maeglin hid in the woods that night, after returning to his bridge long enough to change. Someone had left him a bag with food, and although he hated accepting charity from his uncle, he ate it greedily.

But he didn’t feel safe staying in the woods, not with the fact that his relatives were looking for him. He pulled out his map, running his finger along it, trying to decide where to go.

Maeglin stubbornly told himself that he wasn’t going to take Maglor up on his offer, but perhaps he should stop by Tirion anyway. Just to see what the fabled city looked like.

He packed his few belongings into the bag they’d left for him, and hurried out. He kept to the woods near the roads so that he didn’t have to speak to any of the other travelers, but it didn’t matter since he hardly saw anyone. The weather must have kept them at home.

He hadn’t been in Tirion since his release, and when he entered the city he wasn’t sure what to expect. He had pictured a city like Gondolin, made of white stone and lined with flowers, and while Tirion did have those things, it was so much more.

Maeglin stood in the center of the road, gaping at the city that stretched before him. _Who would ever leave this? _

Finally, he realized what a sight he must be, standing in the center of the road and gaping, so he hurried off the path, standing just beside the gate to stare around him. Long cobbled streets stretched in front of him, and all the houses were carved elegantly of marble.

Even in the middle of winter, with snow carpeting everything, flowers bloomed by the houses.

He found himself wandering in, following the winding streets toward the center of the city where the royal palace loomed, more grand than anything else in the city. It was a complete accident that he found Maglor’s home, but he stopped at the sight of the seven-pointed star on the gate, his first thought being: _who in their right mind would advertise allegiance to Feanor?_

His family would.

Maeglin swallowed and stepped closer, wandering past the gates, past the statues that Maglor had told him about, and straight up to the door. He’d knocked before he was fully aware of what he was doing.

A red-haired woman answered the door. She took one look at Maeglin, then turned and shouted, “Your latest pet is here, Kanafinwe!” He wanted to be offended, but something in the way she’d said it made him wonder if it was actually intended as an insult or a sign of affection. “At least now I know how my full-grown son managed to lose his cloak,” she grumbled, pulling Maeglin into the house and divesting him of the borrowed clothing.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and Maglor hurried into sight, a smile on his face, “Lomion!”

He pushed past his mother to sweep Maeglin into a hug. “Come in, come,” he said, keeping one arm firmly around Maeglin as he led him inside. “You’re awfully cold.”

“And skinny,” said Nerdanel. “And just in time for supper.”

They didn’t say anything about his silence as they led him into the house, taking him to the dining room as talking as though they had known one another for years. 

The dining room table was large - more than large enough for seven sons, their parents, and guests - but they only used one end of it, with Nerdanel sitting at the head with Maeglin and Maglor on either side of her. Supper was a rich and warming soup, and Nerdanel was more than happy to give him seconds and thirds.

“I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation,” Maglor said, eating his own food much more neatly, albeit with only one hand.

“What happened to your hand?” Maeglin asked. He hadn’t failed to notice that Maglor favored one hand, and that the other was covered by a glove.

But at his question, Maglor readily removed the glove, showing Maeglin the injury on his palm. “The scabs are finally beginning to peel,” Maglor said as his cousin leaned forward. “Until I came here it was an open wound, but it finally started to scab over a few months after my arrival.”

“I still say you should have gone to Lorien.”

“Elrond says the same thing, and yet here I am.”

Maeglin raised his head. “Who’s Elrond?”

Maglor and his mother exchanged glances. “He was with me yesterday,” Maglor said. “He and his wife Celebrian.”

“He looks familiar,” Maeglin said, biting his lip. Clearly his questions had made them uneasy. “But I’ve never met him.”

“You’ve met his father, unfortunately,” Nerdanel said.

“Mother-“

“Earendil, the world’s biggest pushover.” Maeglin’s stomach clenched and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick.

“He’s not a pushover!” Maglor hissed.

“No, he just lets his wife act like a-”

“They apologized,” Maglor said through clenched teeth.

“Not to me,” the redhead snapped, folding her arms across her chest.

“I’m not even going to explain why not,” Maglor mumbled.

“Good. Because I’m your mother and I wouldn’t listen.” She smirked, then turned back to Maeglin. “Why are we talking about Starbrain again? Oh, his son.” She sipped from her wine, then said, “After Earendil and his wife left him and his brother, my sons took them in.”

“I kidnapped them! And their parents only left him because of me!” Maglor corrected, looking aghast. “Mother, how many times-”

“He loves you well enough either way, so what does it matter?” Nerdanel asked, shrugging. Maglor just shook his head.

Maeglin couldn’t help but grin, but he did his best to hide it by taking a sip from his glass.

“Do you like the sun in your room in the morning or the evening?” Nerdanel asked suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Which side of the house do you want a room on?”

“I-” he couldn’t remember the last time anyone asked him something like that. He’d designed The House of the Mole himself, so he’d put his room at the center, but it had always been dark there, so the sun hadn’t been anything he’d considered. There hadn’t been sun to worry about in Nan Elmoth, and for the brief time he’d lived in the Palace in Gondolin, he’d just been put into whatever room happened to be empty when he’d arrived. “I don’t mind.”

“I have plenty of rooms, obviously,” she said, motioning around them, “so if you hate your room you’re always welcome to move.”

“I know what you’ll like,” Maglor said softly, giving him a smile.

“Then off with you,” his mother said, shooing them away. “And take a bath!” she shouted to Maeglin. “I don’t need you stinking up my house.”

Once they were out of her earshot, Maglor offered him an apologetic smile. “I would have warned you about her,” he said, “but then I feared you wouldn’t have come.”

“I don’t mind.”

Maglor seemed to know the halls like the back of his hand, and he barely looked at where he was going as he led Maeglin. “Do you prefer Lomion or Maeglin?” he asked, tilting his head.

“I don’t.”

“You don’t have a preference or you prefer neither?”

“Uh-”

“I can make up another name for you if you wish. We can tell everyone you’re a nobody I met in my travels.”

“People know me. I would be recognized.”

“I will convince them otherwise,” the minstrel said firmly.

“You're magic?”

“It’s not magic.” Maglor shook his head. “It’s just my voice.”

“I don’t care what you call me, as long as it’s not traitor.”

“Well then,” Maglor said with a smile. “You may call me what you please - Kanafinwe, Makalaure, or Maglor - so long as you don’t call me Kinslayer.”

“What about Feanorian?”

“How about I call you Eolion?”

Maeglin shut his mouth.

The room Maglor had chosen for him was at the end of a hall, and while it had several windows, they were all covered by thick bushes. But Maeglin’s favorite part was the ceiling. Without saying anything to Maglor, he laid on his back and stared up at the constellations that had been created from gemstones, shining above him.

“Was I correct in assuming you'd like it?” Maglor asked smugly.

“Thank you,” Maeglin whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place after [Missed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20429300/chapters/48465470), which explains the Nerdanel/Earendil/Elwing drama. Although I haven’t finished _Missed_ yet, which is why they’re so vague on what happened.


	3. Chapter 3

Maeglin more or less seemed to prefer to be left alone in his room, and Maglor and Nerdanel were willing to indulge him. He was, after all, unused to having people around him.

But he did come out at meals, and he would sit with them afterward and let Maglor play his harp. Sometimes Nerdanel stayed with them, but more often than not she would hurry off, claiming she had something important to work on.

The reembodied smith had been living with them for a week before Maglor managed to coax him into his music room. There were still boxes laying around from where his mother and Celebrian had tried to tidy it before his return, but for the most part, he’d put everything back where he wanted it.

Maeglin liked the view, pacing around the tower and peering out the windows. Once he’d gotten his fill of looking at the gardens, he wandered through the room looking at Maglor’s various instruments. He’d taken some of his collection with him to Arda, but most of them had been too much trouble to take, and he’d left them behind. At the time he’d been upset by it, but now he was glad he had.

“Did your father make this?” Maeglin asked, picking up a flute and running an appraising eye over it.

“No,” Maglor said, shaking his head. “Curufin made that one for me.” He pointed to a harp, leaned on the wall beside Maeglin. “Father made that.”

Maeglin picked up the harp, turning it over in his hands almost reverently. “Everyone spoke of your father,” he said softly, “but no one had anything he had created.”

“He made your uncle a fine circlet, once, when Grandfather said he ought to be nicer to his nephews.”

“He never mentioned it.”

“He probably threw it away,” Maglor confessed, a slight smile on his lips. “To be fair, I never once saw it wear it.”

Maglor went back to his music, slowly flipping through the pages in an attempt to decide what he was still interested in keeping and what he should just throw away. “Have you met Lord Aulë?” the minstrel asked.

“No,” Maeglin mumbled, looking away.

“You should!” Maglor grinned at him. “You’ll like him, Lomion, _trust me_.”

“I doubt a Vala will want to see me.”

“Well, they released you, didn’t they?” Maglor challenged. “And besides, he’s already been to visit me and hardly seemed concerned by everything I’ve done.”

Maeglin only shrugged, sitting down the harp and moving on to examine Maglor’s other instruments. Occasionally he would voice a question, but for the most part, they sat together in silence.

After a while, Maeglin glanced out the window and paled. “It’s him,” he said softly.

“Who?” Maglor asked, leaning over him to look outside. “Oh,” he said at the sight of Turgon, striding up the path. “Do you wish to speak with him?”

“No.”

“I will handle him.” Leaving his harp with his cousin, Maglor hurried downstairs and got to the door just as his mother was opening it.

“I didn’t invite you,” Nerdanel grumbled. “And no, just because you made me a gazebo I didn’t ask for doesn’t mean you can come over anytime you wish.”

“Pengolodh saw Lomion in your window,” he said.

“Huh,” Nerdanel mused. “And here I always thought he was nearsighted from looking at his books all day.”

“I wish to speak to him.”

“Well, I’d imagine he’s in his library,” she said, shrugging. “Pengolodh certainly isn’t here, so I don’t know why-”

“I meant my nephew!”

“Don’t interrupt me!” she snapped, giving him a severe look. “I don’t care if you made yourself a king, you’re never too old for a spanking.”

“Is that your favorite threat?” he asked, aghast.

Before his mother could answer - or worse yet, start telling stories about when she’d spanked her own sons - Maglor said, “He doesn’t wish to speak to you.”

“I need to speak to him.”

“No, you don’t,” Maglor replied, his voice taking on a biting edge.

“Are you going to enchant me?” Turgon demanded, his eyes flashing.

“Should I?” Maglor asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Not in my house,” snapped Nerdanel.

“You’re not coming in,” Maglor said, and attempted to shut the door. Unfortunately, Turgon stuck his foot in it.

Even more unfortunately, the door was very heavy and had a self shutting mechanism that Feanor had designed, meaning that once it started to shut, even a foot wasn’t enough to stop it.

Turgon let out several choice words as Maglor and his mother attempted to push the door back open, the sculptress grumbling the entire time.

“Damn you,” Turgon grumbled once his foot was freed. “And damn your father’s creations.”

“We might agree on that,” Maglor mused. “Conditionally.”

The former king of Gondolin grit his teeth. “May I come in or not?” he asked sharply.

“If I said no, are you going to tattle to uncle?” Maglor retorted.

“It’s my house!” Nerdanel rested her hands on her hips. “And I say this pissing contest is your problem!” With that, she stormed back into the house.

Turgon sighed. “Please?”

“When are you going to realize your nephew wants nothing to do with you?”

“I want-”

“I know full well what you want!” Maglor snapped, his eyes flashing. “And I don’t care! This may come as a shock to you, dear cousin, but not everything is about what you want.”

“So it’s about what you want?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. And what I want just so happens to be Maeglin’s recovery.”

“I want that too!”

“Ah yes, more of your wants and demands. You are rather spoiled, do you know that?”

“And you aren’t?”

“I’ve helped raise seven children, for your information.”

“The two you kidnapped don’t count.” Then Turgon frowned. “And what does that have to do with anything?”

“They say raising children is the ultimate sacrifice.”

“Not when you’re doing it just to ease your own guilt!”

Maglor shrugged. “Ah well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask for your opinion.” And then, while Turgon was still opening and closing his mouth, no doubt trying to come up with a witty answer, he slammed the door in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: In the original draft, Nerdanel said “dick measuring contest” instead of “pissing contest”


End file.
